


First Person Narrative

by pinebluffvariant



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-I Want to Believe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:11:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4840172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinebluffvariant/pseuds/pinebluffvariant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want to ask you something. There’s something I don’t know about you and I’ve always wanted to ask.” <br/>“But you know everything about me,” he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Person Narrative

“Hey, Mulder, I have a question for you.”

Scully is standing at the kitchen table, surrounded by bottles, glasses, olives and a printout of a supposedly superior martini recipe. Times are good. After her recent promotion at the hospital, her suits have gotten sharper, her haircut more expensive, and her tastes more refined. Where before they put together sloppy gin and tonics with bottled lime juice, now she makes martinis with the top shelf stuff.

Without the threat of capture hanging over them, they’ve been able to spread their wings a little bit. They take a vacation. They go to Richmond on Saturdays and browse record stores; he spits his way through a nostalgic Sex Pistols album from his Oxford days, barking “No Future” as she laughs at his Sid Vicious snarl in the car on the way back to the house. He shaves, comes to visit her at work. She tells him in great detail, at night in their bed, how all the nurses and med techs were checking out his ass and gossiping about him in the cafeteria. He feels ten feet tall under her unabashed, hungry gaze. They’re a little wary of this bliss, but for the moment, they’re free. They’re free.

She turns her back to him, stretches up on her tip toes to retrieve the cocktail shaker from a high shelf, brings it back to the table and gets started. “I want to ask you something. There’s something I don’t know about you and I’ve always wanted to ask.”

“But you know everything about me,” he says. 

“No way, buddy.” She twists the top off the gin bottle and tosses the cap at him where he’s stretched out on the couch. “I’m not in the mood for your convenient ignorance."

She consults the recipe, pours four ounces of gin into the shaker and tops it off with some vermouth. She plops four olives into his glass. 

“Alright. Ask away. But before you do, uh, did you know that you should never put an even number of garnishes in a cocktail,” he says.

She pick up the glasses - they’re probably crystal, finer than anything else in that kitchen - and holds his gaze, scowling but playful, all the way across the room, until she comes to sit, one leg tucked beneath her, next to him on the couch. She hands him his drink.

“I don’t have time for your etiquette and snobbery either. Come here. Cheers.” Their slender martini glasses clink against each other. They’re much more used to drinking weak beer and wine - the Virginia heat allows for nothing else - and he winces a little as the liquor burns his throat. He’s a lightweight in his old age, but when she wants a drink he wants one too, because there’s nothing quite like a cocktail on your comfortable couch in your safe home in the company of the person who is your whole world. He doesn’t think about what could be, doesn’t allow himself to get broody. The world won’t end, can’t end when they’re like this.

They cuddle quietly with their drinks and it's almost two thirds of the way through a late-season West Wing rerun when he notices her tensing up a little. She squirms against his side and he can tell she is distracted. She has a tell: she picks at her cuticles. Whatever it is, he has to defuse it; he wants this evening to end well. He mutes the TV and sets his glass down.

“Hey,” he says softly, tightening his arm around her shoulders. “I’m waiting. For your question,” he adds when she looks into his eyes with a furrow between her brows.

She nods a tiny nod and turns to face him more. She looks bashful, shy, but why? A moment ago this self-assured woman who knows her mind and takes what she wants was plying him with liquor to get some dark truth out of him. “I need another drink,” she mumbles and hurries back into the kitchen.

He gives her a moment. She returns with a second-drink staple: gin and tonic, light on the gin, heavy on the tonic, extra limes to stab at for a tactile distraction. He’s still sitting where she left him. He has no idea what might be coming. She looks up at him over the rim of her glass, straightens up, turns her body to face him directly, grins nervously, and says, in a half-mumble:

“I’ve had this feeling all these years about Alex Krycek.”

Now he’s seriously confused. “What about Alex Krycek?” They haven’t spoken the name in years. Why is she thinking about Alex Krycek?

A second nervous habit makes an appearance: she averts her eyes and reaches out to pluck invisible lint from his shoulder. “Do you remember when we’d first lost the X-Files?” she starts.

“Yes.”

She catches his gaze with hers. “I’ve always wondered if something happened between you and him back then.”

He has no control over it. Mulder’s eyes shift twenty degrees to the right of Scully’s azure blues, his jaw sets, his lip pouts and he knows if he saw himself now he’d recognize it: the panic face. “Um,” he manages dumbly. “That’s not what I was… expecting. What, uh, where’s this coming from?” Krycek has been dead for years, and in Mulder’s book, the fewer seconds spent thinking about the murdering son of a bitch, the better. But she’s asking, so…

“You know exactly how he always looked at you, Mulder.” She’s bolder now, really wanting to know. Her hand cups his cheek where he sits on the couch, frozen. He can’t lie to her.

“I guess.”

“So…”

He places his hand over hers on his cheek and shifts his face to kiss her palm. Somewhere in his now-fuzzy head he hears her say hurriedly that she’s not trying to pry, but it’s been so long and it’s just something she’s wondered from time to time. Elsewhere in his mind he tries to extinguish a brief, odd, uncomfortable memory that is, in fact, probably one of the few things she doesn’t know about him. Or so he thought, but it’s obvious now that he was wrong. He grins at her but it’s weak and transparent.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to answer.”

He swallows. “Yeah. Uh, yeah.”

Her eyes go wide. She’s quiet for along time, and to defuse the tension Mulder leans into her, starts rubbing her shoulders. She stirs her drink, ice clinking clearly in the quiet of the room, then offers it to him with a small smile. He accepts the glass, drains it, and sets it on the coffee table before resuming his massage. He doesn’t know what to say; she doesn’t ask him about his sex life before her for ten long years and now she wants to know about Krycek of all people?

“Sc-“ he starts, but has no chance to finish. He watches her stand and for a second thinks she’s angry, that she’s going to walk away and do her very occasional seething-in-the-bathroom routine and he’ll have to speak gently and say he’s sorry and tell her he’ll be there when she’s ready to talk. She’d asked, and he’d answered. He feels no fault in this situation.

But. She stands between his outstretched legs and looms over him, forcing his body to recline deeper into the sofa to still manage to meet her eyes. A flash of realization hits him when he sees her pupils, dark and large in the dim light of the room, and a little drunk, but also, also they’re - 

She straddles his legs, winds her arms around his neck, and kisses him hungrily. After that it’s all a blur of legs and arms and clothes and his teeth tease her nipple before his tongue soothes, and she presses his face between her breasts as she rides him languidly. He bunches her skirt higher around her waist so they can watch themselves fucking each other, a sight that never gets old. Her orgasm is subtle, they usually are when she’s tired, and when she’s done she grabs his hands and places them on her hips, shows him how to pull and tug and raise and lower her body, so he does.

They don’t say a word to each other. She’s toasty and soft in his arms by the time he comes. After catching his breath he cradles her small body in his arms, draws the chenille blanket around her bare ass and legs, and carries her upstairs to bed.

***************************************************

Mulder awakens in the dark bedroom, one sense cut off but all others heightened: His skin hot, the rustle of Scully’s limbs against the sheets amplified, and when he turns his head and his lips brush against her jaw hovering above him, it leaves a sweet taste in his mouth. “What was it like,” he hears somewhere in the distance. It’s Scully. 

“Huh? He’s barely awake, and her fingers running across his chest, coupled with that damp breath on the side of his face, are disorienting for a long time before they become what she intends them to be: arousing. “What’s… what?”

“What’s it like?” she asks, her voice barely above a low, wobbly vibration in his ear. This is her ‘can’t wait’ voice, the voice she uses so rarely, when she’s worked herself up over something in that impenetrable mind of hers and all that pent up energy just wants to come bursting out. 

“What’s it like,” she repeats, scooting even closer, molding herself to his side, naked knee tossed over his equally bare upper thigh. “This. With a guy?”

“It was-,” he starts but she interrupts him with more squirming.

“Yeah. How was it?” 

She half-hovers above his face there in their bed, and he feels vulnerable all of a sudden, like all her energy is focused on him, on this question in her mind. She’s been thinking about it for years, she’d said. Oh God, she’s been thinking about this. He boosts himself up on one elbow, turns to face her where she’s squirming, clearly turned on and fighting for control, in the crisp white sheets. He pushes a strand of hair out of her face. “It was one time. And it wasn’t… this,” he says and strokes her bent knee that now rests against his lower stomach.

Her eyes flutter shut and she licks her lips. She’s not even trying to hide it from him anymore. Somewhere inside her head, images are playing, he thinks: images of him, her 32-year-old, dorky, skinny ex-partner with a bad haircut and worse ties, on his knees in some back alley, giving his first ever blow job to Alex fucking Krycek. Or even better, since this is closer to her experience, maybe in Scully’s fantasy scenario he’s fucking Krycek on that bad-boy leather couch of his.

Seeing Scully like this, he’s happy he can still, after all these years, have this kind of effect on her. My gift to you, Scully, he thinks, and gathers her up against his chest, lies back down and strokes her back and whispers to her: “You wanna hear about it?”

A shiver courses through her body. She nods. She’d never look him in the eye and admit this, but here in the darkness they’re safer, freer. He’d never look her in the eye and admit this, either, but her fantasizing about him, constructing dirty little scenes in her head, even when she knows she can have him any time, is the most incredible turn-on. His body tells him as much, his cock rapidly stiffening and a sheen of sweat appearing on his chest when he flashes on Scully’s naughty thoughts in his mind.

He starts slow, reaching back into his memory as he drags the pads of his fingers bump, bump, bump down the pebbles of her vertebrae. “You know, I was relieved when they assigned me a partner. Even if it wasn’t you. I missed you, I really did, but I’d never admit that to myself. I just didn’t want to be stuck on wiretap detail anymore. So when they said I could go back in the field, I’d have done a lot worse than taken on a green partner. He was… a kid. A total brown noser, obviously. I figured he had a box of a condo in Crystal City paid for with mommy’s money.”

Scully shifts, restlessly, and scrapes her fingernail across his left nipple. Get to the point, she’s saying. He does: “Anyway, we were in New York. You know that feeling you have when you wrap a case? That rush? I had that all the time with you. And when you realize that the teamwork aspect of law enforcement really isn’t that bad, as much as you hate working with agents you don’t know like you know your partner?”

“Yeah,” Scully breathes impatiently and scratches down his chest, harder this time, “Mulder, no more cop talk.”

“Do you want to hear this story, or not?” He shifts beneath her, pulls her off his chest and half onto her back, bracing the back of her neck with his hand. She reaches out to touch his chest, his stomach, her fingers raking down towards his groin. His other hand tightens on her waist and there’s a feral gleam in her eye as she runs a cool palm down the side of his cock. He exhales sharply.

“Was it like this?” she demands. He had no idea, no idea that this is what does it for her.

A sharp tug on her hand, and he’s got her pinned by the wrist to the bed, hip high. Her head lolls from side to side; she won’t look at him. “Do you want to hear my story, Scully?”

“Yeah. Tell me your story.”

He has to distract her. He releases her, and drags a nonchalant hand from her wrist, across her hip and belly, and into the cotton panties she put on before getting into bed earlier. Her whimper tells her she’s ready, as does the scent, and the sticky humidity he encounters there. With his index and middle fingers, he starts a slow dance, dragging slowly, quietly, up and down like they’re in no hurry. Scully’s legs fall open to him. He presses his whole hand to her swollen flesh, settles the heel of his hand against her pulsing clit, rubs the length of his middle finger in between the layers of plush folds, teases her opening with the tip. He feels her entire body twitch.

“So this vet, Cole, was dead, probably unnecessarily, but we still went out to a bar to celebrate the case. It had been so long since I’d worked with anyone but you, I hadn’t anticipated this kind of… testosterone high that exists when a bunch of men get together to celebrate kicking a perp’s ass.” She’s panting now, resting her hand lightly on top of his. She does this, he knows from years of experience, because she loves feeling his muscles work, in his forearm, the back of his hand, when he fucks her with his fingers. “We went to a bar, I drank a couple of beers to be collegial. You know, guy stuff.”

“Guy stuff,” Scully replies, distant. Her eyes are screwed shut but she needs no visual guide to reach out and start stroking his cock. He composes himself, slips two fingertips inside her, keeps going.

“He was sitting next to me, chatting about some inane corporate drone crap like you’d have expected him to at that time. He was so annoying in his little suit and bureau guidelines memorized. He folded his jacket across the bar, folded it neatly, Scully, can you believe it. Then he rolled up his shirt sleeves and sat back in his chair and started telling me about his crew team. I thought he was the kind of thirty-year-old who’d proudly wear Old Spice because his grandpa had. So I’ll admit it, I sniffed him. And I was right.” 

He adds a third finger inside her and she lets out a loud moan, wrapping her fingers firmly around his cock for the first time. He has to focus, can’t let her distract him. This is her little game, and she’s trying to throw him off. This deserves punishment, so he withdraws his fingers and, dragging wetness up her slit, starts rubbing her clit faster, in tighter circles. It works, she’s distracted, keeping her hand on him but stroking slower, without rhythm. This story will get told after all.

“So anyway,” Mulder behind again, trying to sound as cool as he can, “We had a couple of drinks, unwound a little bit, I rolled my sleeves up too, everyone’s ties were loosened. We were like a big happy family. But Scully, I’d learned something from you even back then. Punctuality.” He emphasizes his words by pinching her swollen clitoris between his first two fingers, and she responds as he knew she would, with a keen and an arch of her back. “We had to be up early for our flight to DC the next morning, so I told Krycek I’d take a cab back to our motel. I paid for my drinks, gathered my things, and headed out."

“Just as I was leaving the bar I heard him call my name. ‘Mulder, wait up!’ he hollered, and I turned around to find him scampering up behind me. ‘No need to make Uncle Sam pay for an unnecessary cab,’ he said, ‘we’ll just take my rental. I was ready to go anyway.’”

Both her hands are working him now, but she’s distracted and keeps losing her grip. It’s okay. This is about her. Mulder drops his voice to alert Scully to the fact that this is where the real story begins. 

“So… we got into his rental car. I dropped my keys or my badge or something on the mat at my feet, and so I leaned down to retrieve whatever it was. And then I felt his hand on my neck, nothing major, just a touch, he was… he touched me, like this,” Mulder says, and gently, lightly, caresses the back of Scully’s neck with the hand still supporting it. He creates a rhythm with his fingers on her neck and his fingers on her clit, stroking, stroking, stroking. She doesn’t even make a sound, just opens her eyes and lets him know everything he needs to know with that look. He stares at her there in the darkness as he starts the important part.

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t shocked. He stroked my neck and I looked over at him and he had this look on his face - his eyes were darting all over my face but I realized they kept coming back to my mouth. And you know me, Scully, you know this about me: I like to be touched.”

Scully pants and squeezes him, pumps a bit faster. “I know.”

“I like to be touched and there was just something about that earnest face of his. He wouldn’t move his hand and I didn’t ask him to. I straightened up and looked at him. He… he released his seatbelt and tightened his fingers in the hair at the back of my neck and then he drew me to him, like this.“

Mulder squeezes her neck and leans down and, for the first time since the story started, kisses her open mouth. Her tongue wastes no time, seeking entrance and getting it, and she moans into his mouth, urging him on. He also knows she loves this sometimes, kisses so deep they both almost gag; she loves them when she’s close. He has one final part of the story to tell. His hand works her faster, grinding against her clit, pulling it up and pressing firmly on the downstroke, and she’s still so, so slick for him.

“He kissed me, Scully, he kissed me there in his car and I let him. He smelled different from earlier, darker now. I’d never kissed another man before but that small, thin mouth of his- I couldn’t help myself. I leaned into him and put my hand on his shoulder and kissed him again. It wasn’t deep, like you kissed me just now, but it wasn’t rough either. His tongue flicked out and teased mine, and I kissed him back, with my tongue, and we stayed like that for a minute or two, grabbing each other, kissing. I felt his rough stubble beneath my hand - touch my face, Scully.”

She does, leaving his cock and rubbing her palm against his scruffy cheek as he leans down to kiss her again. He grinds down with his hand a few more times, his tongue in her mouth, and as she comes she clamps her legs around his hand, clutches at his neck, moans into his mouth. She’s coming in my mouth, he thinks.

He stays with her as she comes down, feathering little kisses all over her face, soothing her swollen flesh with his palm. He withdraws his hand and rests it, massaging lightly, on her mons over her soaked underwear. He finishes the story in a whisper, hunched over her limp body, placing wet kisses along her temple and jaw. 

“I still don’t know how or why it happened, Scully. After awhile he pushed me away with a hand on my chest. He tightened his tie, apologized, said it was wrong and that he hoped I wouldn’t hold it against him. I told him I wasn’t a homophobe and he said he wasn’t gay. Normal- normal guy talk. We drove back to the motel. I could never have predicted what would come next. Never. And that’s why I never told you, besides the fact that you never asked. He was a traitor and a murderer, and once I put my tongue in his mouth against my better judgment. But that,” he kisses her nose and straightens himself up a bit, creaky from staying in an awkward position for so long, “is my answer to your question from before. Now you really do know everything about me."

“Thank you for telling me.” She’s panting a little, forearm thrown across her forehead as if she’s trying to keep herself tethered to the bed. Then she reaches for him, rains her light touch down the side of his ribs, making him squirm from ticklishness. He’s almost ready to take her back into his arms and roll over and fall back asleep, despite still being hard and craving some release, when her soft fingertips wedge themselves just a touch, a tiny touch, inside the crack of his ass. She squeezes his buttock and whispers, “Mulder, are you sure it wasn’t like this?”

Oh, Scully. Oh, oh, sweet Scully. He flexes his glutes against her hand, tips her chin up, makes her look him straight in the eye. His face, he knows, shows nothing but devastating honesty. He smiles his most beatific smile. “Maybe I’m saving myself for you, my love."


End file.
